'Tis the night before Thanksgiving; you can't expect any self-respecting non-professional blogger with minimal readership to write a serious entry today, can you?
I just wanted to stop by and tell you something.
Ahem.
I hate socks.
You heard me. I hate 'em. Hate hate hate. I'm mildly claustrophobic, but I think my feet have a case that is unparalleled in all of Neuroticland. On top of my feet's hatred of being encased in anything (and, to be fair, this includes shoes that aren't flip-flops or my battered Birkenstock clogs), I'm both prone and sensitive to toe-wedgies. You know, when your sock material kind of gets caught between individual toes, and then you start wiggling them to try and free them, only it doesn't work, so you wiggle them harder, but it just gets worse, so you have to rip your shoes off and yank the fabric away from your sensitive, sensitive toes? No? That's just me? Well, okay then. Good to know.
In any case, it's probably good that I hate socks. According to Lauren, my taste in them is deplorable. Every time I'm be-socked at her house (a necessary evil due to her chilly hardwood floors, you see), I hear cries of, "Amy, grow the hell up and get some damned white socks!" Apparently hearts, gingerbread men or my personal favorite, puppies wearing Santa hats, are unacceptable sock decor for adults. Lucky for me, she has yet to see the High School Musical-themed socks with Zac Efron's face on them that Ashleigh gifted me with. She may just kick me out of her house at that point.
My feet resent this cold weather we're having. Sockless, my toes go numb and I fear for their little-piggy lives. I may rip them off violently in my sleep, but socks are the status quo in these chilly winter months.
Hey, at least if an impromptu game of Twister ever breaks out, I'll be ready.
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1 comment:
Your socks are atrocious. You know this.
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